


What Matters Most

by coffeestainsfoggeduppanes



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Boys In Love, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Emotionally Repressed, Emotions, Feels, Friendship, Friendship/Love, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I'm Bad At Summaries, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm in so much pain, Idiots in Love, Kinda anyway, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, a decade of pining, so much pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:10:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23710570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeestainsfoggeduppanes/pseuds/coffeestainsfoggeduppanes
Summary: Andy and Novak's Instagram live had too many emotions.
Relationships: Novak Djokovic/Andy Murray
Kudos: 34





	What Matters Most

**Author's Note:**

> As our lovely Sir Andy Murray pointed out, it was 3 am in Australia when his Insta-live with Novak occurred so yes, I am running on two hours of sleep right now. I watched like 20 minutes then passed out only to wake up again at 5 am to write this fic because I had so many feels and now I'm posting it - Idk what Novak was trying to do to all of us with his spiel about friendship in the first five minutes of their chat. Like, calm down there Djoker, we can only handle so many emotions in one day.  
> .  
> P.S. I just want to say thank you to all those unsung heroes out there who record these lives and put them on YouTube, I actually love you. Okay, I'll stop rambling now.

Andy fiddled with his thumbs as he logged onto Instagram and started the live. Audience members poured in immediately, as with the comments, but he was too distracted to pay much attention. For one thing, he was terrible at technology and was trying to familiarise himself with the settings so that when Novak (finally) came on, he could actually put his screen up. He made Jamie show him how to do it yesterday over a video chat, but after about an hour of frustration and arguments, his brother had retorted that he should just stick to tennis.

 _Don’t you think I already know that?_ Andy was furrowing his brows in confusion at the buttons and the colourful hearts lining the screen and the comments—all coming in so rapidly now that his phone was lagging. But technology was the least of his problems.

Because the other thing that was filling the Scot with anxiety was that he was going to be chatting with Novak Djokovic, and his heart had been sinking about that fact for the past two days since they announced it. It was all very official, actually. Their Insta live was more about providing the fans with content due to the tennis season being cancelled and was _not_ the type of hangout session of just the two of them that would make Andy’s heart thunder. But his heart didn’t get the memo, because it was beating so wildly that Murray was worried his phone’s microphone would pick it up.

At least Novak wasn’t here yet.

“Novak’s notoriously late,” Andy offered to the impatient watchers. _As usual._ Andy has found that when it came to Novak, his inner monologue got increasingly bitter. _He’s late in more ways than one_. Murray tried not to roll his eyes at the denseness of the Serb, but honestly, he shouldn’t get mad just because Djokovic was tardy. If Novak still couldn’t figure out the Brit’s feelings after fourteen years, he couldn’t really be expected to arrive to a video call on time, now could he? 

“Come on, Novak, where are you?” Andy muttered and lo and behold, Novak’s username popped up in the comments: ‘I am hereeew’ it read, and despite everything—the years of frustration, the decade of agony, the pain of his existence—Andy smiled.

“Don’t worry,” Andy chuckled as Djokovic put his hands together in apology, not sorry at all. 

The Scot’s eyes went tender as Novak’s face filled Murray’s screen with his cheeky smile, his scrunching eyes and his damn ugly green shirt.

Andy’s voice was soft. “I got you.”

~

Novak was pretty ecstatic to be having a live on Insta with Murray. He had been looking forward to it since they first talked about it a week ago, spamming the Brit with emoji-filled reminders before Andy finally relented and scheduled with him a set date. Djokovic had not slept for the past two days.

“How are you?” He asked, so sincerely that Andy was taken aback, eyes widening just a little. Djokovic had his hands clasped under his chin, the smile on his face as bright as the Spanish sun that streamed in through the windows behind him. Actually seeing Novak and actually _speaking_ to him made Murray relax. What was he so worried about? It was Novak. Just Novak. He always enjoyed spending time with Djokovic, and this is no different. Andy settled into his pillow, pushing away any thoughts that betrayed platonic friendship (he was getting pretty good at this, by the way), and letting their years and years together ebb and flow their conversation.

But Novak didn’t make it that easy.

If it was easy, Andy would definitely not be as stuck as he is now.

But Andy _is_ stuck, and that’s because Djokovic tended to do things that made him go absolutely mad.

Like tell him that he had spent his weekend watching Andy’s documentary (as if that wouldn’t make the Brit blush at the attention).

Or sympathised with Andy about career-threatening injuries (a familiar ache creeped back into Andy’s back and chest).

Or suddenly going quiet, eyes shifting and doing... doing whatever _this_ was.

Andy’s brow creased as Novak hesitated, an environment of awkwardness and tentativeness forming even though they were miles away, and behind screens. Murray bit his tongue as his heart skipped a beat. Novak suddenly looked so serious.

“By the way,” Novak turned his sight away, not wanting to see how Andy tilted his head with his mouth set in a grim line, his eyes so intensely focused. Djokovic knew he had on that expression without even having to look at the Brit—it was a face he had seen so many times already, after all, each line and crinkle imprinted on his brain. “I’m really happy to have this live, this, uh, this chat with you. Because I feel like we don’t have many of these chats.” A pang of pain zipped through him. “Throughout the years we did have, you know...?”

Novak faltered, a weird aching in his chest strangling his words. It’s been so long since he talked with Andy, like _really_ talked with him. Not just about matches. Not just about tennis. Not just about how practice went which Djokovic didn’t actually care about, but asking anyway, because there was something desperate in him to hear the Scot’s voice for as long as possible before his inevitable turn away, his dropped gaze and the heavy pause between what were now two rivals, instead of two friends.

He missed the old them.

The them as adolescent boys and awed voices describing dreams.

The them in prideful stubbornness, jostling in locker rooms with fighting words and placed bets. 

The them when the night took over, the thick atmosphere of alcohol squeezing into what little space was left between them as they talked about everything besides their injuries, and the muffled sound of the party downstairs seeped into the room.

Now, they were older, or maybe just old. Andy has always looked tired, Novak realised that second, as he tried to finish what he was saying.

“We’ve always had this good relationship, but because of the rivalry, because of the– of the—,”

_What?_

“The everything.” Novak shrugged. He couldn’t pinpoint when, and he couldn’t pinpoint what, but _something_ , _everything_ changed between them somehow, and Andy now stares at him with the slightest of furrowed brows, his silent demeanour betraying nothing as the Serbian floundered.

“We just–, we just couldn’t be—,” He gulped, “Too close.”

Andy drops his gaze.

“I guess.” Novak added hurriedly. He took a sharp inhale. That was probably too much. Their deep midnight conversations in whispers should stay just that: in the dark, hidden, and not mentioned of ever again. They were on an Instagram live for goodness’ sake, and Djokovic felt the sting of scrutinization on his skin.

“But it’s interesting to reflect.”

Novak straightened his back.

“To go back in time.”

He willed for his lips to turn upwards, for energy to return to his voice.

“About how we felt about–,”

Djokovic has always been good with media press conferences. He has always known what to say, the language in which it is said. He knows the boundaries, and the manners, what they expect of him and what he should say. He knows what he should say now.

“Matches.”

Andy took a deep breath in, a deep breath out, knocking the back of his neck onto his bed’s headboard.

Matches.

Tennis.

Of course.

That’s what they were here for, that’s all they seem to be here for. Anybody looking on from the outside might’ve thought that’s the only thing the two ever talked about with each other, and honestly, it has seemed that way for quite a bit now. Murray tries to keep the disappointed sigh in.

He actually thought, just for a split second there, that Novak was being sentimental for a moment. True, it was Andy who had brought up their past, their first ever match. He was testing the waters, sketching out the boundaries of their friendship? Their rivalry? “Do you remember our first match together?” he had asked, and Novak laughed.

“I think my memories of when we first met each other is probably significantly different from yours,” the Serb shook his head, beaming so brightly that Andy couldn’t help but do the same.

“I only remember the score.” He lied to see how Novak reacted. To see if he could recall every single detail like the Brit could.

“I know! You kicked my ass!”

And Novak’s voice took on that wistful tone as he brought up their past, their first tournament, the two of them _together_. He had the the same air of reverence as when he tried to describe to Andy the snow-capped mountains of his home Serbia and the Brit’s stomach had lurched with optimistic denial and a foolish man’s attempt at hope that there was something more buried beneath their words.

But now they were back to tennis. Now he was back to his press conference façade. Now he was back to being World number 1 Novak Djokovic.

 _Stupid bugger_. Andy chastised himself, smashing his lips together and trying to pay attention to whatever the Serb was saying now about perfectionism and the Olympics and whatever else.

He actually thought that maybe, Djokovic missed them together.

Maybe even as much as he did.

But it’s fine. It’s probably better this way. Andy nodded more to himself than to Novak, who was right in front of him and yet so far away. Further than just countries and time zones, further than they could probably ever cross.

 _Yeah, it’s better this way_. Andy shifted, rubbing the back of his neck, and Novak pressed knuckles to his mouth as Murray followed his lead to do what the both of them were stunningly good at: acting. Acting like the professional tennis players they were.

_And twenty thousand people watched as two people talked about everything and anything, except what mattered the most._

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you all are as emotionally invested in the two of them as I am because wow, I am *hurting*.


End file.
